06.10.04: New design. Got rid of the art and tape trading sections since I don't really trade
anymore. Lots of new poetry.
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I’ve resigned to the fact
that sleep is impossible. To sleep
is to forget, if only
for a while.
The pen—blue, that I have waning faith
will absolve me of
wakefulness, like a god’s touch, proves
failure—rolls
awkward off the
bed, propelled by the crushing
weight of my elbow
on softened, white mattress. You know,
I could always
to fall asleep with your
breath upon me,
drugging each other into
limpid oblivion, cerulean and
pink. Moonlight,
tender out the dirty window glares
obscene like the light of blurred television
against the page.
There’s always that
rising feeling that this is
not where I belong—anywhere. So, maybe,
it’s not your absence
that’s keeping me awake tonight. Maybe,
it’s the history of the
whole world
in general. The bed sheets turn hot and
cold against aching
skin. Revelation. How many times has the sunset
left me dissatisfied in its
wake? To not remember anything,
ever—
the insomniac’s dream.
--Molly Herrick 12.04.02
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